Arbeit Macht Frei
by Simbelmyne
Summary: AU: Capt. Yozak Gurrier of Big Shimaron is charged with a difficult task: break the will of a stubborn prisoner named Weller. *ON HIATUS*
1. Tag Eins

**Title:** Arbeit Macht Frei  
**Author:** swgmigraines  
**Rating:** M—M+  
**Summary:** AU: Capt. Yozak Gurrier of Big Shimaron is charged with a difficult task: break the will of a stubborn prisoner named Weller.  
**Warnings:** Slash, rape, bondage, torture, _**CHARACTER DEATH  
**_**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Kyou Kara Maou!_ or any of the lands or characters therein. This is a work of fan fiction and I am receiving no profit for it.

**Notes: **The purpose of this work is to explore what might have happened if Yozak and Conrad had not met as children_—_and what might have happened if they had met decades later, as men and enemies.  
The verse used in this chapter is from the poem "Sympathy," by Paul Laurence Dunbar.  
**Dedication:** For Vain-chan, as always…and since this is all her fault anyway. ;D

* * *

— **Arbeit Macht Frei —  
**By Simbelmyne  
———

_I know why the caged bird sings, ah me,  
When his wing is bruised and his bosom sore—  
When he beats his bars and he would be free;  
It is not a carol of joy or glee,  
But a prayer that he sends from his heart's deep core,  
But a plea, that upward to Heaven he flings—  
I know why the caged bird sings!_

———  
**Tag Eins  
**———

Conrad Weller. Captain. New Makoku.

That was all that Yozak knew about the new prisoner currently in his care.

The man had been discovered skulking about in the streets yesterday and had been unable to promptly answer simple questions about his background. A more thorough search of his person had uncovered the crest of the demon queen. He'd been arrested on the spot, of course, and brought in for questioning. The men had reported to Yozak with the captive, and all through booking, he'd held his head up high as if he were some prince.

Conrad Weller. Captain. New Makoku.

He _was_ some prince, of course. Everyone in Big Shimaron knew about Conrad Weller, half-breed prince of New Makoku and last living descendant of the rouge Weller house. No one knew why he had returned to Big Shimaron, but King Belal had practically wet himself with glee when Yozak delivered his report. He'd barely stopped grinning long enough to give the soldiers one very basic order: "Find out everything he knows, but do _not_ mar him."

And of course King Belal would give an order like that, if it concerned a Weller. Yozak had seen the human interrogators at work before. Flaying their prisoners' skin off, piercing their hands with drills…they were too rough and impatient to handle a valuable prisoner like this. Even at Weller's booking, Yozak had noticed bruises on his cheeks and along his jaw where he'd been beaten during his arrest. Those were nothing. A healing _houseki_ could take care of them in a minute or two. But a broken arm, shredded skin, blindness…those were more grotesque disfigurements. Yozak knew what King Belal planned to do with this captive after they'd learned all they could from him. Everyone knew about King Belal's preoccupation (though some might call it obsession) with the Weller clan. And they also knew how severe the punishment would be if Belal received a damaged Weller.

That's why the prisoner was currently sitting in the holding cells, waiting for Yozak, instead of outside in the pillory and up to his knees in snow. If there was anyone who could get a man to talk without tearing his bones out, it was Captain Yozak Gurrier. Everyone in Belal's palace knew it.

Conrad Weller. Captain. New Makoku.

The ceiling above Yozak's head dripped, as it had been doing for as long as he could remember. Murky kitchen water dribbled down, an inch away from his precious prisoner logbook. Yozak moved to the side with a grumble of irritation and continued writing up his daily report on the 'problem' prisoners. Albrecht the Mad in Cell 15 wasn't responding to floggings. Klaus van Kneff in Cell 12 still refused to betray his revolutionary group, even though he'd been locked in the Iron Maiden with no food or water for two days. And Guntram over in Cell 5 was…well, for lack of a better word, dead.

Bother.

Yozak closed his logbook and stored it away safely. The dripping from above was starting to become more frequent. Perhaps it was about time to put in a work order. A few more months of this and Yozak didn't doubt that the wooden ceiling, already buckling slightly, would come crashing down on his head one day. Not that the rest of his office was in the best condition, either: the stone walls were cracked with age and the wooden floor was molding. There was no fireplace, either, so Yozak had taken to storing blankets in the bottom drawer of his desk for exceptionally cold winter days. He had added a bookcase and a chair to the space when he'd first received it, but it had hardly made the office any more welcoming.

Still, all things considered, it had been terribly kind of His Majesty Belal to give him a commission. Yozak thanked his lucky stars for this job every day. There were far worse places Life could have cast him off than the basement of the king's palace.

A knock from outside pulled him out of his thoughts, and the door opened before Yozak could open his mouth to greet his guests. Gottlob and Mathias, two of Yozak's more promising apprentices, strode in. Mathias was still wiping blood off of his hands.

Yozak leaned back in his chair, frowning. "Well?"

"We got him to scream a few times, but other than that, nothing," Gottlob reported, shrugging. "Just kept repeating that same stupid mantra over again: Conrad Weller, captain, New Makoku. He doesn't want to break."

"Who does?" Yozak replied with a shrug. "It doesn't matter. I want to deal with Weller myself. You two, go let van Kneff out of the Maiden for a minute. Give him a drink and see if he's ready to talk. If he is, get Dolph and take his statement. If not, back in he goes."

Mathias tossed the bloody cloth onto Yozak's desk and saluted half-heartedly. "_Sir._"

Yozak eyed the bloodstained cloth on his desk for a long moment before delicately picking it up and throwing it into the wastebasket beside his desk. Clenching his jaw slightly, he waved them out. "Dismissed."

Mathias and Gottlob slammed the door as they left. Yozak cursed quietly when they'd gone and closed his eyes. Now that he'd taken full responsibility for Weller's interrogation, what was he going to do with him? Weller was a warrior, so pain alone probably wouldn't break him—all those whips and chains in the dungeons were basically useless. The Iron Maiden, the rack, and their ilk were out, too—His Majesty Belal still wanted this one preserved above anything else. Yozak suspected that the king would not appreciate having his future plaything's limbs torn off.

Yozak had only seen Weller for a few minutes at the prisoner's booking, but even from that brief memory, he knew why Belal was obsessed with keeping his captive whole. With his full head of hair, clean skin, handsome face, and deep eyes, Weller, unlike most soldiers, was actually pleasant to look at. He wasn't just the Key to The End of the Wind—he was damn attractive, too.

"How does one mold a hard metal without scorching it?" Yozak asked the darkness, resting his chin in one hand. His rotting office, unsurprisingly, had no apparent answer.

He shrugged and stood shakily, groping for his cane in the half-light. He'd tortured many men during his career—young men, old me, stubborn men, flexible men, and even a few women here and there. But this was the first time he'd ever had a prince entrusted to him. A half-breed prince, even.

Yozak extinguished the torches and limped out into the adjacent dungeon, humming a little ditty from his youth.

———

Breathe in. Breathe out.

Conrad stared steadily at the molding stone wall ahead and tried to calm his fluttering heart.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

The humans had gone, but they'd left a mess behind. His jaw was bruised and sore, and he was bleeding freely from his nose. One of his eyes was quickly swelling shut. His teeth felt like they had been knocked loose.

In. Out.

Faints wisps of steam curled up from his bleeding body. The dungeon where he'd been confined was freezing. He bit his tongue hard to keep his aching jaw from chattering and tried to focus on the blood oozing slowing from his nose. It was easier to think of that than to listen to the screaming from the other prisoners that seemed to press against him from all sides, adding to his growing claustrophobia and despair.

In. Out. In. Out.

Conrad closed his eyes. The cold down in the dungeons was paralyzing. When the humans dumped him into a cell down here, all they'd given him was a straw mattress, a threadbare blanket, and a bucket. He'd been exhausted from the beating he'd taken during his capture, but he hadn't dared to rest—not here, where he was completely at the mercy of a Belal.

Besides, after listening to the blood-curdling screams of the other prisoners for hours on end, Conrad doubted he'd sleep peacefully ever again.

That had been in the cells, though. Here, in the Interrogation Room, things were a little quieter but no less distressing. The gore smeared across the walls and congealing around the drain was black and filthy and foul. A rat, fat and sluggish from gorging on blood, waddled slowly through the room. Conrad watched the animal squeeze itself through a hole half its size without really seeing it, panic rising in his chest as his breathing grew faster and shallower. He wanted to put a hand over his mouth and control himself, but the manacles binding his wrists to the wall made that impossible.

In. Out

_In. Out. _

_In. Out. In. Out. In Out In Out InOutInOutInOutInOut__**InOutINOUT**__—_

A key turned in the lock, arresting Conrad's attention. He looked straight ahead again, squaring his jaw and hardening his eyes. He may have been trapped in enemy territory and scared out of his wits, but he'd be damned if he let his enemies see him quivering and shaking like a coward.

The old man who shuffled in, however, was hardly an imposing figure. Conrad stared as a withering, redheaded human limped into the dungeon, leaning heavily on a roughly-hewn cane. He held a bundle of whips in his free hand and glared at Conrad with a sour expression. Conrad was surprised to see that in addition to the cane, the old human was also sporting a patch over his left eye.

Conrad briefly forgot his panic in a moment of pure confusion. Surely _this_ wasn't the vicious, cruel, merciless head interrogator that the younger humans had threatened him with when he refused to break?

The old man grumbled something unintelligible as he set his whips down on the single coarse wooden bench on the other side of the cell. He kicked the door shut with his good leg and limped closer to the chained half-breed, staring critically. Conrad stared back, assessing this new enemy while masking his confusion behind a blank façade. In truth he almost felt a little offended. If Belal was sending an old cripple to interrogate him, he obviously didn't think very much of Conrad's resolve.

When the human was less that a foot away, however, Conrad blinked in surprise. The interrogator wasn't really that old; he'd simply been weathered beyond his years. Numerous small cuts and scars peppered his face, but he was free of wrinkles and his hair was as bright and colorful as a gemstone—not a gray strand in sight. His remaining eye was bright and clear as well—blue as the icecaps of Big Shimaron's mountains and just as cold.

The human brushed orange locks out of his face and said, "Conrad Weller. Captain."

"New Makoku," Conrad finished.

The interrogator smirked. "Yozak Gurrier. Head Interrogator. Big Shimaron. Pleasure to meet you, Conrad-Weller-Captain-New-Makoku. So sorry I can't give you a proper handshake." He leaned against the wall with his free hand and tilted his head. "You're the demon queen's son, aren't you?" He grinned and touched a lock of Conrad's hair. "His Majesty was very… _excited_…by your arrival."

Conrad covered his shudder by turning his head away sharply.

Gurrier shrugged and stood back, leaning heavily on his walking stick. "You won't hold on to that attitude for too long. It's my job to persuade you to think differently." He wiped some of the blood dripping from Conrad's nose away with a gloved hand. "These shiners my apprentices gave you? They're nothing. We have a rack here, Conrad-Weller-Captain-New-Makoku, and an Iron Maiden, and a large assortment of thumbscrews. His Majesty is very keen on making sure his dungeon is filled with only the best equipment."

Conrad squared his jaw. "Conrad Weller. Captain. New Makoku."

Gurrier laughed as stripped off his bloody uniform gloves, tossing them carelessly underneath the wooden bench. "That's old news, Conrad-Weller-Captain-New-Makoku. Everyone in this dungeon knows who you are. What I want to know is what brings a man of your stature to Big Shimaron. Surely the demon queen doesn't need to send her own _son_ into enemy territory? Or have we killed all the _regular_ half-breed flunkies, and you're the only one she has left to send?"

Conrad stared stonily ahead.

"Giving me the cold shoulder?" the interrogator laughed, removing a pair of leather military-grade gloves from his pocket. "I've lived in Big Shimaron my entire life, Conrad-Weller-Captain-New-Makoku. I'm used to the cold."

Gurrier approached again, still looking calm as he tugged on his leather gloves. "You should talk to me. If you don't talk to me, I'm going to start hurting you, and who knows when I'll stop?"

"Conrad Weller. Captain. New—"

Conrad suddenly made a surprised sound as his head snapped violently to the right. He blinked in surprise as a stinging sensation spread over his left cheek and Gurrier laughed in his ear.

"Oh…I'm sorry. I should have used my left hand," the human sneered. "Are we married now?"

Conrad turned his head, staring blankly at his tormentor as a red welt blossomed across his cheek. He hadn't even seen him _move_.

Undeterred by his captive's gaze of surprise, Gurrier raised his hand again and brought it down hard. This time Conrad was expecting it; he pursed his lips together tightly as the human's rough hand struck his raw, bruised skin. Pain shot through his body and Conrad winced, but he bit his tongue and kept his mouth shut. Again and again Gurrier's hard fists pummeled his tender body, but Conrad hardly uttered another sound. He could hear Gurrier yelling at him—strange, intelligible words, and so heavily accented that he couldn't make any sense of them.

It didn't matter. He wasn't going to break. Pain and Life went hand-in-hand, and pain was no excuse for weakness. He would _not_ break for this bastard.

The blows grew weaker and eventually stopped, and Conrad dared to open his eyes—or eye, as one had completely swollen shut from this second beating. The human was standing back, chin resting in one hand, looking thoughtful—almost as if he was surveying a piece of fine artwork. Conrad glared at him as best he could, vaguely aware that his one-eyed glower wasn't nearly as intimidating as he'd hoped. In fact, Gurrier smiled at his expression.

"That look like it hurts," the human said. His black gloves were covered in blood spatters.

Conrad weakly rocked his head from side to side. In fact, it really _didn't_ hurt—he was far too numb from the beating to feel any of it anymore. But he was still conscious, still (mostly) standing on his own two feet, and he still hadn't given up anything—not a single word other than his name, rank and country.

If he hadn't been almost certain that his teeth would fall out if he did, Conrad would have smiled. Vicious, nothing—if anything, this interrogator was downright tame. Or maybe completely incompetent; he'd been through worse in his own bedroom.

Gurrier took a step forward, seizing a tuft of Conrad's hair in his hand and roughly hauling him up. A weak sound escaped Conrad's lips involuntarily as his slumping body was hauled up for Gurrier to inspect.

"What are the demon queen's plans for Big Shimaron?" the human asked in a surprisingly tender voice. It sounded almost like a balm in Conrad's ringing ears. "Why were you sent, Captain?"

"Nn…" Conrad blinked at his tormentor with his good eye. Gurrier's face had softened considerably; he was staring down at Conrad with a sad, almost empathetic expression.

"Tell me," he pleaded quietly.

"Con…rad…Well—"

The world suddenly turned upside-down. His vision reeled; the floor tumbled over his head before he suddenly found his head plastered against the hard wall again. His cheek burned, and it took Conrad a moment before his pain-addled brain could process the situation: Gurrier had slapped him again.

"How stubborn. It doesn't matter, though," the human scoffed, moving towards the door. He peeled off his bloody gloves and tossed them onto the bench against the wall. "You and I have all the time in the world, Conrad-Weller-Captain-New-Makoku."

Conrad let his head slump again, hanging from the wall and breathing weakly. The pain from the beating seemed to creep through his body slowly, seizing every inch of him little by little. He heard Gurrier open the door to the Interrogation Room from what seemed like a hundred miles away.

"Sir?" A familiar voice. One of the guards who had tortured him earlier, perhaps?

"Call a healer." Gurrier's voice sounded distant and muffled to his ringing ears. "Tell her to clean him up and fix what needs fixing. I doubt His Majesty will stop by, but he should be presentable if he does."

"Rations?"

"A cup, no board," Conrad heard Gurrier say. His pain-addled brain somehow managed to translate: they weren't going to feed him today. With the taste of blood fresh and strong in his mouth, he didn't mind very much. It probably wouldn't have stayed in his stomach very long.

"And don't harass him," Gurrier continued. "This one is His Majesty's special case. He'll have your eye put out if you touch his pet."

_Pet._

The word chilled Conrad's bones like a gust of winter air.

The door opened all the way with an ominous creak. Conrad tilted his head slightly to catch sight of two familiar faces approaching—the same two humans who had tormented him earlier. He stared as fiercely at them as he could with his split lip, broken nose, and swollen eye, but they didn't strike him again.

His manacles clicked open and he fell; surprisingly gentle hands caught him before he hit the flagstones and spread him out carefully on the grimy floor.

"Gottlob, clap some irons on him _before_ the healer fixes him up. When she's done, show her attendants where his cage is. Mathias, did van Kneff say anything?"

"Nope."

Gentle fingers skated across his chest, peeling away the bloodstained uniform. Conrad made a sound of protest and tried to sit up—he wouldn't be stripped down like this!—but those gentle hands turned forceful and pushed him back down onto the flagstones.

A long sigh from Gurrier. "Add the Maiden's Eyes and throw him back in. I'm tired of playing around with that bastard." He sounded as cool and collected as if he was requesting a glass of wine with dinner.

"Yes, sir."

Those gently rough fingers pulled open his jacket and began to undo the buttons on his shirt. Conrad rolled his head to the side, twisting his body slightly in a valiant effort to get away. There was little else he could do. His hands felt like they'd been shackled to the floor.

"Still feisty after that beating," Gurrier said from somewhere even farther away. "Gottlob, I'm going to see Dolph. Make sure this one gets back to his cage safe."

"Sir."

"No scratches!" The interrogator's voice had a bounce in it that Conrad took issue with, but the only protest that he could muster was a strangled wheeze in lieu of the vitriol he was seeking. Frustrated, exhausted, and increasingly lightheaded, he focused instead on resisting those insistent hands grasping at his uniform—the last link he had left to his homeland. He didn't even notice when Gurrier left the chamber, whistling cheerfully as he went.

———

Yozak sang softly as he made his way back to his office, the distinct thumping of his cane against the floor like an impromptu drum to accompany his thoughtful tune.

Conrad Weller. Captain. New Makoku.

He'd tested well, that one. Gottlob and Mathias has softened him up nicely, as was their specialty; afterwards Yozak had beaten him until his bones creaked underneath his skin and threatened to break, but he hadn't cried out once. A few sighs, a moan here and there—but not the desperate pleas for mercy that Yozak had been hoping to hear. Not once in the entire hour that Yozak had beaten him.

It was very rare that a prisoner refused to make a noise during his testing. They didn't exactly get heroes down here in the dungeons—mostly bandits, petty thieves, and guttersnipes with delusions of grandeur. They never stood a chance; a few punches and a dozen lashes, and most of them were tripping over their tongues to give Yozak all the information he wanted. It never failed, and it made his job bearable. It was the _heroes_—the ones who really believed they had something to prove or hide—who wouldn't make a peep.

Yozak liked it better when they screamed. Not only did it mean he could stop the test—always a treat for him—it also let him know how hard he was going to have to work in the coming days at the _real_ interrogation. It made his job that much easier—it was painfully easy to accidentally kill a prisoner if one didn't have a good estimate of how much brutality he could take.

Weller promised to be a tricky case, and Yozak didn't like that. Now that he'd accepted full responsibility for the half-breed prisoner, though, he couldn't just send another apprentice to finish the job if it proved too much for him to handle. Not that he would—hearing his subordinates sniggering about him behind his back was worse than anything he could face in his own dungeon.

Their new half-breed reminded Yozak a bit of van Kneff. That one, too, had refused to make noise through his testing—and look where that had gotten him. By now, Gottlob or one of the other apprentices was probably shutting him in and piercing out his eyes. Yozak had already decided what to do if that didn't work. The king's hawks always enjoyed a meal of flesh snipped from an uncooperative prisoner's chest.

Yozak shrugged off any lingering remorse as he rounded a corner and began to carefully ascend the rickety stairs out of the dungeon. When he first received the job as an apprentice under his former master, the idea of stripping a prisoner's flesh off and feeding it to the falcons would have shocked him to the point of nausea—and it did, on several occasions. But his master was dead, all his former colleagues were dead, and although he'd served King Belal for decades in this festering dungeon, he was still alive and sane.

It hadn't been easy, though; Yozak wasn't cut from the same stock as the men who served under him these days. As he slowly dragged his lame leg up step after creaking step, that was more painfully apparent than ever.

Yozak steeled himself and, with a groan of effort, hauled himself over the exceptionally tall sixteenth step.

None of that mattered anymore, though. Weller was the kind of prisoner he'd been hoping to get for decades—the kind of special, unique case that would require just the right touch, and, with any luck, finally get the king to notice the valuable work Yozak had been doing for years already.

Tonight, Weller would sleep peacefully in his cage, whole and unthreatened. Tomorrow, though, the real ordeal—for both of them—would begin.

Yozak was oddly at peace with that idea as he climbed the last step and emerged into the palace hallway. As long as it was someone else at the nine-tailed end of the whip for a change.

———

Once the tingle of the healing _houryoku_ wore off, his cell seemed even colder than it had before.

Conrad drew his threadbare blanket close around his shoulders. It smelled like reek and waste, but he couldn't afford to be picky now. His warm, sensible uniform was gone, and the healer hadn't given him anything very practical to replace it—just an itchy tunic which smelled like it used to be wrapped around potatoes. She'd rushed through the procedure, too, as if she felt healing him was a waste of her precious time. Which, he reminded himself, she probably did.

How had he gotten into this situation? He stared straight ahead at the grimy wall, thinking back to yesterday. He'd been blending in with the crowds so well—light on his feet, quick with his Shimerese, strolling through the streets as if he'd walked them all his life. And then he'd let one word slip—one tiny curse in the language of his mother's people—and the guards had been on him within seconds. A simple, honest mistake—and now, it might cost him everything: his mission, his freedom, and his life.

Conrad leaned back against the unyielding wall behind him, sighing heavily. What a way to end—in the dungeon of his family's ancient enemy. At least they would never have to know or see how low he had been brought—by his own failure.

Or how low he might still be brought. Conrad shuddered to think of what awaited him if he finally broke. The leers that the humans had given him…those looks frightened him more than the threat of being tortured to death. Better to be dead than to _belong_ to his enemy, like a…a…

_Pet._

He pulled the grubby blanket tighter around his shoulders and balled his fists tightly in the greasy fabric. Earlier in the evening, the guards had left him a bucket of dirty, icy water to drink. Conrad stared at in disgust—as if he could boil it with the anger of his glare alone. Then, with a mad gesture, he threw his leg out and kicked it over. Water splashed over the flagstones, and the bucket slammed against the bars of his cage with a furious clatter.

No.

He'd had a spotless reputation so far. He'd spent years denying himself, censoring himself, and working harder than any other damn soldier in New Makoku to get where he was. He had a fantastic career and a bright future ahead of him, and he wasn't going to let it end like this. He _was not_ going to live out the rest of his day as the toy of some perverse noble.

The moans of the prisoners in the dungeon around him cemented his resolve.

­_I won't die here._

Conrad pulled the grubby blanket tighter around his shoulders, balling his chilly hands into fist. He stared into the darkness defiantly.

"I _won't_."

The dungeon grew cold as day faded into night. Conrad watched the spilled water freeze and crystallize into a smooth mirror of ice before finally drifting off into a restless sleep.

* * *

Please review.


	2. Tag Zwei

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Kyou Kara Maou!_ or any of the lands or characters therein. This is a work of fan fiction and I am receiving no profit for it.  
**Warnings:** Slash, rape, bondage, torture, language, _**CHARACTER DEATH  
**_**Notes:** Thanks to everyone who gave me lovely reviews last time, and thanks to my shiny new beta, Apapazukamori! Make sure to check out her great YozMura ficlet!

* * *

— **Arbeit Macht Frei —  
**By Simbelmyne  
———

_Although the world is full of suffering,  
__it is full also of the overcoming of it.  
_—_Helen Keller_

———  
**Tag Zwei  
**———

"I want to see him."

Yozak swallowed nervously. "Your Majesty, he's barely been here a day."

King Belal, ruler of Big Shimaron, merely sipped his wine and raised an eyebrow in Yozak's direction. "Captain Gurrier, the length of time he has been in your care is of no consequence," he drawled over the lip of his glass, "if I wish to see my prisoner today."

"Your Majesty, please…" Yozak said carefully. His instincts told him that he ought to whisper deferentially, but in a throne room of this size, it wouldn't have mattered. The great arched ceilings and sweeping walls, decorated with gold and marble and portraits of the Belals of old, magnified the voices of its occupants like an amphitheater. It had been designed well, with the purpose of handing down orders and proclamations in mind. A man whispering on one end of the hall would seem to be shouting to a man standing at the other.

And that was how the king could force Yozak to kneel at the very end of the throne room, as far away from the throne itself as possible, and could still condescend to him as effectively as if Yozak was kneeling at his feet. It was standard practice at this point for Yozak to kneel with his bad ankle and foot pressed against the door to the main corridor; he'd been required to do it for all of his infrequent audiences with the king. The guards standing at attention on either side of him always found it very amusing; Yozak just found pleading his case with two men sniggering next to him endlessly frustrating.

"Your Majesty, all I'm saying is that I feel he requires more time to learn his manners," Yozak said, raising his head slightly to look imploringly at his lord. "I think his attitude would greatly benefit from at least a few more days of intense work."

The king tilted his head back, as if he were surveying an interesting insect in his path. "Are you suggesting, perhaps, that you are unable to handle this particular prisoner?" He swirled his decanter; the wine spattered against the glass in bloody red splotches before collecting in the bottom again.

Yozak tried to ignore the hot, embarrassed flush flaring up on the back of his neck. "Not at all, Your Majesty. All that I'm saying is that I feel that I would be able to make him much more presentable for you if I were allowed a little more time with him. If he doesn't know what's expected of him, and Your Majesty decides to visit him so soon, I can't guarantee that he would behave himself."

Belal raised an eyebrow. "And what do you feel, Captain Gurrier, I could anticipate if I were to visit him today?"

"He would be uncooperative, as expected," Yozak said, ignoring the soft snickering around him. He knew when he was being humored, but he plowed forward anyway. "He would most likely need to be restrained. I don't think he would allow—"

The words withered and died on his tongue at the sight of Belal's face, and too late Yozak realized his error. No one chose whether they would _allow_ the king to do something or not—especially not a half-breed prisoner.

The king tilted his head in amusement. "Please continue."

"…would allow Your Majesty within his cell," Yozak finished lamely. That hadn't been what he had wanted to say at all, but he knew better than to announce the king's real intent for the Mazoku prince in public—especially with a Royal Guard standing at attention in every alcove of the throne room.

The king held out his glass for more wine, which a servant filled for him right away, and took a long, ponderous sip. Yozak watched his throat work with his one good eye intently as the seconds ticked by.

Finally, Belal said: "Then don't you agree that it would be best if he was made used to such visits sooner, rather than later?"

It was obvious what the king wanted to hear, but Yozak couldn't give him that answer in good conscience. He paused a moment to gather his courage before speaking. It wasn't the king he was afraid of; not at all. But the elite guards standing around the throne room, all champing at the bit for the chance to slice him into bloody ribbons—those men made him nervous. They weren't as accomplished as the king's personal guard, but they were still skilled, and none of them bothered to hide their contempt for Yozak; even now, he could see one of the guards beside the throne, rubbing the hilt of his sword as lovingly as if he were stroking himself.

"I don't," he said brazenly.

Belal's eyes widened a bit and his lips parted slightly—the most shocked expression Yozak had even seen on his eternally calm face. The guards at the foot of the dais tensed, their hands twitching towards their swords. Yozak braced himself, his own hand straying slightly towards his cane.

After a long, anxious moment, the king sat his wine glass down on the arm of his throne. "You seem to have powerful feelings about this particular prisoner."

"Naturally, Your Majesty."

Belal pressed his fingers together thoughtfully, surveying Yozak with genuine interest. "Perhaps it would be better if another handler was to care for him, then. I would not have his training compromised simply because you feel strongly for him."

"Your Majesty, please, no!" Yozak exclaimed, suddenly worried. He couldn't lose this prisoner to another interrogator already. He just _couldn't_. Not one as important as _Conrad Weller_… "Let me assure you, I'm only trying to do what will benefit you the most. That's why I want to make sure that when you see the prisoner, he's calm and ready to see you as well." He briefly wondered if he should kowtow to gain Belal's confidence again. "I wouldn't want your first meeting with him to be sour just because he's not in the proper frame of mind yet."

Belal smiled pleasantly and picked up his glass again. "How good to know where your loyalties still are, Captain Gurrier. Nevertheless, my decision stands."

Yozak's shoulders slumped and he looked down in defeat. Why did he even bother arguing anymore? "Yes, Your Majesty."

"I will see him this morning," the king said with an unsettling smile, "after my breakfast. If he is not ready, Gurrier, you will _make_ him ready."

_Your breakfast is in thirty minutes!_ Yozak wanted to shout at the unfairness of it all, but all that came out was a sullen, "Yes, Your Majesty."

Belal began to drink deeply from his goblet and waved a dismissive hand in Yozak's direction. Silently gnashing his teeth, Yozak began the arduous process of pulling himself to his feet again, using his cane to push off the ground.

He shouldn't have been so surprised. As soon as he had knelt and presented his case to the king, Yozak had known he wasn't going to get what he wanted. He had not expected, however, that he would get so little time to prepare his new prisoner. If he had known Belal was this eager to see Weller, he wouldn't have bothered to come here and plead at all. What a waste of time…

"Too bad, cappy," one of the guards flanking him muttered as Yozak turned towards the door to go.

Yozak just stared at him, trying not to glare, and tapped the door with his cane. "If you please."

The guards stepped aside to open the towering doors for him, and Yozak pushed past them into the chilly hallway. A passing maid spotted him and froze. He turned left to head back to the dungeons; she spun on her heel and hurried off the other way. Yozak barely noticed her, or even where he was going, so lost was he in the hurricane of his thoughts.

After his breakfast, after his breakfast...how could he make the half-breed ready for the king after his breakfast when Weller still needed weeks of work?!

Pausing for a moment before the reinforced dungeon door, Yozak tightened his fingers around his cane and breathed deeply. Getting angry wouldn't help; it never did. All he could do now was make Weller ready, and pray to any god listening that he wouldn't walk away from this inspection humiliated.

Yozak was quite sure his prayers had fallen on deaf ears when he spotted Emil at the bottom of the stairs, looking through the handcuff storage cabinet. Emil Rohe—a gentleman with uncommonly dark skin who looked about Yozak's age—was a favored manservant of the king. He frequently ran errands around the castle for Belal, and since he was one of the few lackeys brave enough to venture into the dungeons, it wasn't uncommon to see him among the cellblocks three or four times a week. Normally he just came to pick up and drop off Yozak's logbook. If the king was planning a trip to the dungeons, however, he would usually send Emil ahead to make sure that things were presentable.

Yozak loathed Emil.

"Even if he won't admit it, he knows I'm doing good work down here," Yozak grumped, making much more noise than necessary as he descended the stairs. "I don't see why he still has to send you."

"Because it would be most unbecoming for the king of Big Shimaron to wade through blood puddles that your lackeys neglected to mop up," Emil replied, looking pointedly at Yozak as he came thumping down the steps.

"I can assure you, sir, there are no blood puddles in the cuff closet," Yozak said dryly. "Maybe you should check under the Iron Maiden instead."

"You're amusing. A rare occurrence." Emil let the cabinet doors swing shut with a _bang!_, rattling all the cuffs inside.

"Who said I was joking?" Yozak said with a little smirk, leaning forward on his cane. "I'm sure you know where it is by now. Feel free to have a peek inside, too."

"And so quickly back to crass…" Belal's servant turned and pinned Yozak with a dark look. "I'm here to inspect the prince's cage, Gurrier. I wouldn't have bothered to wait for you, but your aide—" He gestured towards Ignatz, Yozak's personal aide, who was lurking in the shadows. "—said only you have keys to that block."

"That's right," Yozak said, searching for his keys. He motioned for Ignatz to come forward and handed him the keys; the youth ran off obediently. "We're keeping him in Block Six for now, but that may not be permanent. It all depends on whether he behaves or not."

"And if he doesn't?" Emil asked, following Yozak through the dungeon.

"He'll go into solitary confinement until he learns some manners," Yozak promised as they arrived at the block and Ignatz bent to open the door. Yozak tightened his grip on his cane, his own personal reassuring gesture. Even if Emil was a disagreeable snob, he was still the king's representative in the dungeon. If anything were to go wrong during Weller's initial presentation…it wouldn't reflect well on Yozak.

Ignatz pushed the heavy iron door open, and all the squalor, stench, and misery of Block VI rushed forward to greet the three men. With its solid iron doors and sparse, high windows, Cell Block VI had the best security of all the blocks in the dungeon. Yozak liked to keep all his problem prisoners and 'special cases' there.

Ignatz stepped aside respectfully. Yozak ushered Emil into the block and pointed down the line.

"After you, sir," he said, falling into step behind the other man. "Last cell on the right."

———

There was a blood puddle on the floor. Conrad watched it carefully as it oozed its way towards the drain in the center of the hallway.

He had a vested interest in that puddle. He had put it there, after all.

Conrad leaned his head against the bars of his cage, thinking and remembering. He'd slept so poorly last night…it seemed like every time a prisoner moaned or beat the bars of his cage, the noise had jerked him awake. It was incredibly frustrating, especially when it seemed that the only respite he might find from this awful situation was when he was unconscious.

Still, somehow he'd managed to garner a few uninterrupted hours of rest—only to be awakened by the door slamming at the end of the cell block. Then came the ominous _thump-thump_ing, and Conrad had pulled himself to his feet, despite his freezing, aching limbs. It was always best to look one's enemy in the eye, if possible. If nothing else, he could do that to prepare himself for the inevitable pain that was coming.

What he hadn't been prepared for were the two men accompanying Gurrier when he came limping down the foyer. The one trailing behind had looked meek and mousy—some sort of serf or underling to clean up the refuse, maybe. But the one striding ahead had had a confident gait and a snobbish expression. Conrad knew what kind of man he was just by looking at the disgust in his eyes.

Knowing that had made it so much more satisfying when the same man had slipped and fallen outside his cell. Conrad tried to stifle his giggles unsuccessfully as Gurrier and his sandy-haired whipping boy rushed to their countryman's aide. Throughout his military career, Conrad's mentors had always stressed _not_ antagonizing any potential higher-ups in a situation like this—but how else was he supposed to react when a pompous human fell on his backside like that?

His amusement had been short-lived, however. First Gurrier had cursed…and when the human—"Emil"—wouldn't get up, Gurrier roared at his assistant to get help. That's when Conrad had first noticed the blood, slowly seeping from a crack in the fallen human's skull.

When the convulsions started, he had to look away. Then Emil had stopped moving altogether, while Gurrier cradled his bleeding head and pleaded with him to hold on. And throughout it all, Conrad could do nothing but stare at the body and his water pail—still overturned from the previous night, and dotted with ice crystals.

Now he stood alone and stared at the coagulating blood puddle—all that was left here of the innocent man that he had killed. It felt like hours had gone by since somber guards had carried the corpse away. Or had it been minutes? There was no way of knowing. There was only one window in the entire cellblock, but it let in so little light that it might as well not have existed at all.

His fingers twitched around the bars of his cage. What was Belal going to do when he found out Conrad was still killing his citizens even when he was locked up? And what of the dead man's family? Would they be compensated? Killing soldiers in self-defense was one thing; killing civilians in the crossfire was quite another. Conrad rested his head against the bars miserably as his mind raced out of control.

He shouldn't have wasted his water, he thought, his survival instincts taking hold again. He'd probably never get another drink after this fiasco…he'd have to ration whatever water he could get his—

The cellblock door suddenly opened.

"I certainly hope that he's been made ready."

Conrad froze.

_He_ was coming.

"I can't say much for his behavior just yet, Your Majesty." Gurrier's voice drifted down the corridor. "He will be a challenge, but I'm sure that with enough _time—_"

"Of course." Conrad could hear the disinterest in Belal's voice without even seeing his face. He quickly stepped away from the door as the sound of many footsteps grew closer. It seemed Belal had brought his entire entourage down to see his new half-breed. "Why is he kept so far down the block?"

"I thought it best to keep him isolated," Gurrier responded. "To keep him calm and keep him from hurting himself or…"

Conrad took another step back as a pair of lackeys suddenly appeared before his cell, sprinkling sand and salt over the icy flagstones. A pair of armed guards and a gaggle of menservants followed them, staring at him and whispering. Conrad felt his face flush in angry humiliation. To be on display like this, like the king's prized beast…

Then _he_ came.

Belal's shoes popped the salt underfoot. Such an innocuous sound, but it seemed to Conrad like the crack of doom. The mob parted and gravitated towards the opposite side of the corridor as their king strolled forward, a satisfied expression on his face. Gurrier followed in Belal's wake, trailing timidly like a beaten cur. Two more guards brought up the rear.

Conrad's muscles twitched erratically with the urge to fly as the mob tried to stare him down. It was humiliating to be on display before all these people—his enemies—with no place to flee or regroup. He stubbornly stood his ground, however. He would show no fear before his captor…or his toadies.

"Or?" Belal prompted as he stared.

It took a moment before Gurrier realized that he was the one being addressed. "Oh…or to keep the other inmates from harming him, Your Majesty." He coughed into his gloved hand. "Some of them were unhappy to hear that they'd have to share their space with a half-breed now."

"I sympathize with them." Belal took another step closer until his gut pressed against the bars of the cage. Conrad lifted his chin, subtly defiant.

The king smirked as he stared. "Come closer."

Conrad stared at back at him blankly.

Belal frowned slightly. "I told you to come closer."

Out of the corner of his eye, Conrad saw Gurrier drop his head and pinch the bridge of his nose. He didn't budge. Defying Belal was satisfying in itself, but humiliating Gurrier at the same time was just an added bonus. The rest of Belal's entourage began to shift uncomfortably and murmur softly amongst themselves.

"Captain Gurrier, reign in your charge, if you please," Belal said coolly, his robes billowing slightly as he turned to face his interrogator. Conrad could feel the draft off them and he stepped back. Even that was too close.

Gurrier reluctantly lifted his head and approached the cage. From the way the redhead carried himself around Belal, Conrad would have hardly guessed that this was the same man who beat him until he was numb with pain yesterday. Leaning on his cane, exhaustion plain on his face, Gurrier looked more like a wounded animal, slowly but surely dying, than a heartless dungeon master. How on earth had he managed distinguished himself and become the head interrogator?

"Come closer," he ordered simply.

Smiling serenely, Conrad took a step back.

Gurrier clenched his teeth. "_Come closer_," he repeated. Conrad might have imagined the hint of desperation in the redheaded human's voice, but judging from the smirk on Belal's face, everyone else could hear it, too.

"Your handling capabilities leave something to be desired, captain," the king said calmly.

"As I said earlier, Your Majesty, without further training, there's not much I can do now," Gurrier responded as he took his place at the back of the crowd again. "Unfortunately, he hasn't been fully broken in yet."

Conrad watched the odd dialogue with a slight interest. Why did they stand so far apart?

"I should say not," Belal replied. "I heard he was responsible for dear Emil's…little accident this morning."

"Yes, Your Majesty. He made an ice slick with his drinking water." Since Gurrier was standing at the back of the throng, only Conrad was able to see the satisfied smirk that crept onto his face as he spoke. "Emil slipped on it and cracked his head right open."

"I was very sad to lose him," Belal said serenely, with no hint of sadness at all. "He was a trusted servant and he will be missed by all." Behind the king, his entourage murmured quietly in obedient agreement. Only Gurrier remained stubbornly silent.

A pang of regret stuck in Conrad's stomach. That man who he'd killed…what would happen to his family? Surely they would be compensated…he'd been a 'trusted servant,' after all, and he'd been killed while doing the king's bidding…

He looked to Belal for some sort of clue, but the king merely smiled and said again, "Come closer."

Conrad scoffed. If Belal wanted to trade information for cooperation, he could go straight to hell. Conrad would never bargain with his captor. Instead, he stood his ground and said firmly, "Release me. My m—queen knows I'm here. She'll declare war if you detain me here."

"So he does speak." Belal chuckled. "Dear boy, if the demon queen did indeed send you, then you are acting as her agent. She is the one at fault. If I capture a spy in my own lands, I may do whatever I wish with him. Those are the rules of engagement, as you should know.

"In addition," the king continued, his smirk only growing, "I doubt the demon queen would ever willingly undertake something as…messy…as a war. My _own_ agents tell me that she has little love for battle or conflict." He sneered. "Or indeed, anything lacking a broad set of shoulders and a strong jaw."

With an audible scoff, Conrad turned on his heel and retreated to the back of his cell. Just because he was prisoner here didn't mean he had to stand there and listen while his blood enemy flung slurs about his mother at him. The murmurs started up again behind him—"He turned his back on the king?!"—but Conrad didn't care. He still had his wits about him, and as long as he had those, no one could force him to respect that posturing human.

This act of defiance didn't seem to sit well with the king, though. "Bring him here."

Gurrier piped up immediately. "Your Majesty, I _strongly_—"

"Be silent, captain."

Someone opened the door of his cell; Conrad took a chance and glanced over his shoulder. Two guards were entering his cell—helmets off and swords sheathed.

He made his decision in a second.

When the nearest guard laid a hand on his shoulder, Conrad whirled around and drove the heel of his hand into the human's nose, breaking it instantly. The guard lurched backwards with a scream of pain, blood pouring down his face.

Belal's audience stared in shock. Even the other guards seemed to be rooted in horror. Conrad seized the moment: he grabbed the moaning human's sword right out of its sheath and cut his throat just as quickly. The guard wheezed as blood sprayed from his throat and all over the dungeon: on the floor, on Conrad's bedding, and on the hem of Belal's robes as the human tried desperately to crawl to safety before dying at the king's feet.

The menservants screamed at the sight and ran from the cellblock as fast as they could. Conrad barely heard them—the smell of blood was in the air, and his heart was pounding too wildly for him to slow down or stop now. He whirled and struck the other guard in his exposed throat, cutting off the human's head—almost. The corpse fell to the ground and jerked wildly in its death throes, its head still clinging by a few fragile tendons and strips of flesh. Warm blood gushed freely over Conrad's bare feet.

The other guards rushed forward, swords drawn, but Conrad was more than ready for them now. One charged at him, sword stupidly raised high above him. Conrad ducked and shoved his stolen weapon through the human's gut, slicing him open like a slaughtered lamb. The human's innards spilled out with a sickening splash that sounded distant and foreign in Conrad's ears. He kicked the corpse out of his way and slashed his way through the final guard. The human sputtered and fell before him like a stalk of wheat, and Conrad left bloody footprints on his uniform as he walked over him.

Amazingly, Belal and Gurrier had both stood their ground as Conrad cut down their guards. Belal was as white as snow and practically trembling with fear, but Gurrier was another story. Completely calm, he was leaning heavily on his cane and watching impassively as his countrymen writhed and died in their own gore and filth. He raised his head and met Conrad's bloodthirsty gaze—and smirked.

Conrad tightened his grip on the stolen sword and rushed forward, stepping nimbly over the corpses littering his cell and into the corridor. First he would cut off Belal's head…then he would chase down that smirking cripple and kill him _slowly_…

Gurrier raised his hand and shouted, _"Ignatz!"_

A hammer-blow struck the side of Conrad's head and sent him flying. He slammed against the wall of the dungeon with enough force to rattle his teeth and make his bones crack. Pure power pinned him against the stones, blinded him, and forced the sword from his hand. He opened his mouth to scream; power rushed down his throat, silencing him, strangling him. Wind rushed past his ears with deafening force, so fierce that Conrad couldn't even hear whether he was screaming or not—

The howling wind stopped. Conrad crumpled into a heap at the base of the wall, paralyzed with pain and shock. Blood trickled into his eyes. A few inches in front of him he could see his bloodstained sword lying on the flagstones. He tried to stretch out his hand towards it, but for some reason, his body failed to obey his brain. Panicked, he tried to stand and run, but his legs refused to move. His entire body was paralyzed. He couldn't even twitch his fingers.

Gurrier walked forward—not even leaning on his cane—and calmly picked up the bloodstained sword. "That was poorly done, Conrad-Weller-Captain-New-Makoku," he said quietly, pressing the tip of the sword lightly against Conrad's neck, "and it's going to cost us both dearly."

Another human walked up behind Gurrier—the same mousy-looking youth who had accompanied the interrogator this morning. Conrad caught sight of something bright and sparkling in his hands, like a gem stone—until it started to glow.

…of course. A _houryoku_ priest. So that's why Gurrier hadn't fled. Conrad had never met a _houryoku_ priest capable of paralyzing a half-demon. This one obviously had some talent on his side. The priest pressed the stone against Conrad's temple threateningly, daring him to move. Conrad stayed still.

"Put him to sleep, Ignatz," Gurrier instructed as he turned, sword in hand, and hobbled back towards the king. Ignatz nodded and the stone in his hands began to glow brighter. The howling sound filled Conrad's ears again as _houjutsu_ began to flow back into him, sapping his strength and making his body impossibly heavy. His fingers twitched desperately as he tried to fight, but the priest's magic was too strong.

The last thing Conrad heard as he slipped into unconsciousness was Gurrier's voice: "I hope that now, Your Majesty, you'll agree with me that the prisoner needs more training."

———

It took three strong men to drag Weller's unconscious body to the interrogation room and chain him up. Ignatz went with them, keeping his _houseki_ ready all the while. Yozak summoned Gottlob to supervise the clean-up.

"That's Frej Bromson there with his head almost off," Gottlob murmured wretchedly as his assistants dragged the bodies out and mopped up the gore. "And Jan Friedemann over there, with his guts out all over the place. He's got—well, had two little ones…"

"It _is_ a heavy loss," Yozak said impassively, stepping aside as servants dragged the last body out. "I hope—"

Gottlob spun around and seized Yozak's lapels, shoving him roughly against the wall. "Mongrel!" he spat. "_You_ let this happen!"

Yozak snarled and ground his cane down into Gottlob's foot as hard as he could. The apprentice yelped and Yozak slipped away. He took a few steps backwards into the hallway, holding his cane defensively. "You think I wanted this to happen?" he snapped. "I _told_ the—His Majesty that Weller wasn't ready to be touched. I _told_ him that Weller wouldn't let anyone in his cage. It's not my fault he ignored me—_again_."

"You're a liar," Gottlob insisted as he nursed his injured foot. "King's not an idiot."

"He sees what he wants to when he looks at Weller," Yozak said, choosing his words carefully when confronted with that remark. "If I hadn't had Ignatz bring his _houseki,_ we'd probably _all_ be dead right now. I'd never seen bloodlust in a man's eyes like that before…he was ready to slaughter everyone in this castle, down to the last scullery maid."

"He wouldn't have gotten away," Gottlob muttered, practically pouting now.

"No, but he _would_ have killed the king," Yozak pointed out. What had Belal been thinking, having the cage opened up like that…but that was just it, wasn't it? He _hadn't_ been thinking. The Belal that Yozak knew was far more prudent than that.

"Captain!" a private called, poking his head into the cellblock, then ducking out of the way to allow two servants with a body to pass. "The prisoner is waking up!"

Yozak brushed past Gottlob without a second glance, calling back, "I tried to prevent this, you know. Spread the word."

Yozak could feel his apprentice's angry stare following him all the way out of the cellblock. He didn't dare turn around. Gottlob would spread the word, all right…and tonight, the entire castle would be swarming with soldiers out for Yozak's blood. The soldiers' pain, the king's anger…someone would have to pay for this. And it was all going to come out of Yozak's hide.

It wasn't _fair_…but that's the way it was. He had accepted that a long time ago.

A soldier whose name Yozak didn't know escorted him to the interrogation room. He recognized the guards at the door, but didn't bother greeting them as he moved past. All four of them gave him dirty looks as he passed them into the interrogation room. They slammed the door behind him and Yozak heard the lock click.

Weller was chained to the wall again, arms high above his head, blinking off the last of his magical sleep. He glared when he saw Yozak. "If that priest hadn't been there, I would have killed you."

"I know. That's why I brought him," Yozak said, containing his surprise that Weller was actually speaking. "You ought to know that I'm the only one here who doesn't underestimate you, Conrad-Weller-New-Makoku. That's why I'm the only one who I trust to care for you."

Weller spat angrily at Yozak's feet.

Yozak raised an eyebrow. "The king will not be back," he promised, "because I think he scares you more than I do. And we can't have that. Not yet, at least."

For a moment, Weller looked like he was going to say something other than his usual mantra, but he thought better of it and turned his head away.

Yozak scoffed quietly. He wasn't about to tell his prisoner that Belal was scared of him now, too. The king had been shaking like a leaf—half with fear, and half with excitement. After he'd been escorted to the safety of the castle proper, he'd barely been able to contain himself—Yozak had heard him murmuring about how Weller was the "quintessence" of his rogue line. Never mind that four human bodies were growing cold now, thanks to Weller's "quintessence."

It was almost sickening, really, how obsessed the king was with this half-breed…especially when—

Yozak stepped back, giving his prisoner an ugly look, and rapped sharply on the locked door. A guard—Radulf Eriksson—opened the peephole and flipped up his visor. "Captain?"

"You can come in. I want his cuffs shortened."

Radulf glanced at Weller. "Aren't you going to punish him?"

"This is his punishment. Come in."

Muttering something unintelligible, Radulf snapped the peephole shut and unlocked the door. Two guards entered—Radulf, and another guard that Yozak knew only as Till—and brushed past Yozak without a second look. Yozak frowned slightly.

"How much shorter?" Radulf asked as he and Till set to work adjusting the length of the manacles.

"Short," Yozak said, leaning on his cane and watching Till and Radulf work. He caught Weller staring quizzically at him from between the guards and smiled nastily. It was nice to have strong men working for him. "Let him stand on the tips of his toes."

The prisoner groaned as Radulf and Till held him between them, shortening his chains. Yozak supervised from against the wall. He was pleased to see that the palace guard was finally exercising some common sense: neither guard was carrying a weapon. After this morning's catastrophe, the king had been much more amenable than usual. Yozak had even been able to bend his ear for more than five minutes. As a result, bladed weapons were no longer allowed to be carried in the dungeons. All guards from the castle proper were to check their weapons at the surface. Anything in the dungeons with a blade—from the most wicked of skinning knives, right down to Yozak's eating utensils—was to be locked up in the dungeon's storage room. Yozak and his three apprentices were the only ones with keys.

The palace guards weren't happy at having to give up their swords, but Yozak had no sympathy for them. Weller was a deadly force with a blade. If he got his hands on another one, even the smallest knife, he would cut down anything in his path. Yozak wasn't going to be punished for more deaths thanks to someone else's carelessness.

Till and Radulf stepped back and gave the chains a shake, making sure that the new length would support the prisoner's weight. Weller groaned unhappily at the movement. With his hands bound so high up by chains so short, he was forced to either hang entirely from his wrists, or rest all of his weight agonizingly on the tips of his toes.

Yozak nodded and pulled himself away from the wall. "That's good, he said, eyeing the chains and the grimace on the prisoner's face before turning to the door. "You may go."

Till seemed confused. "Should I get an apprentice instead?"

"No," Yozak said, casting a glance over his shoulder. Weller glared back, his face already twisting in pain. "Leave him there for the night. Let him think about all the lives he's destroyed today. How many children did Jan Friedemann have again?"

"Two," Radulf said, gnashing his teeth in rage even as Yozak ushered him and Till out. They'd done what he asked, and it was never a good idea to keep the guards in the same cell as the prisoners. "Beautiful wife, too. Makes great meat pies. Don't know how she's going to get on…"

"How indeed," Yozak said, closing the door and looking pointedly at the prisoner writhing uselessly on the wall.

"Bastard," Weller hissed.

"Perhaps…but I've never killed anyone, Conrad-Weller-Captain-New-Makoku." Yozak gestured broadly to the interrogation room around them. "Not even in here." He took a few steps towards the door, smiling nastily as he let himself out. "Enjoy your day…and night."

Yozak could hear Weller cursing as he left, but he didn't have the opportunity to listen. Radulf, Till, and their comrades were waiting for him outside with angry expressions. Yozak took a deep breath before turning towards Radulf.

"Give me the keys," he said firmly. "This is Weller's new cage. I don't want to risk transporting him between blocks again until he softens up."

"How long will that take?" Radulf demanded, grudgingly dropping the keys into Yozak's outstretched palm.

"As long as it takes," Yozak replied noncommittally, stuffing the keys into his pocket. The guards muttered among themselves softly, but apparently the truth wasn't good enough for Till.

"And who's going to take care of Jan's family in the meantime, Gurrier?!" he demanded, elbowing Radulf aside and jabbing Yozak hard in the chest. "Or Uwe's old mother?!"

The other guards mingling about began to mutter amongst themselves and advance threateningly. Yozak gripped his cane tightly and swallowed the lump in his throat. What did they expect _him_ to do about that? "You ought to ask His Majesty."

"We don't need to," another guard whose name Yozak didn't know interjected. "He already assured us that this only happened because of your recklessness." The men nodded and grumbled in agreement.

Yozak gaped. "_My_ reck_—"_

Too quickly to see, Radulf reached forward and grabbed Yozak's lapel, dragging him closer. With a yelp of surprise, Yozak dug in his heels and cane into the ground, trying to stop, but Radulf wasn't one of Belal's elites for no reason. As easily as if he were lifting a sack of flour, he hauled Yozak up and over his head, a full six inches off the floor. Yozak cursed and dropped his cane, helpless in Radulf's grip. He didn't dare move now. It was just better not to fight back when—

"I don't know where you've been hiding these past few months, you crippled old mongrel, but you'd better pray that we don't find it tonight." Yozak could feel Radulf's warm, foul breath on his face. The man smelled like beer and old meat. "Otherwise, you might not make it _through_ tonight."

He threw Yozak back to the ground with a snort of disdain; Yozak landed in a heap against the door of the interrogation room. "We'll take our leave now, if you please, _captain_."

Yozak nodded, shaking.

The guards stalked off without another word; Yozak heard them stomping up the dungeon steps. It wasn't until he was sure that they'd left that he dared to crawl forward to retrieve his cane. He brushed the dust off his jacket and straightened his lapels with trembling hands. All things considered, that had gone far better than expected. He'd anticipated getting something far worse than just a firm shaking when he'd seen the castle guard standing in front of Weller's cell. After all, the last time a prisoner had killed a guard…

He touched his eye patch absentmindedly. No, they wouldn't bring their full wrath down on him in the middle of the day. That would be foolish. But for Yozak to come away from an encounter with the castle guards without so much as a scratch was astonishing. Perhaps they understood that this one was Belal's pet project. Normally if a prisoner hurt or killed a guard, Yozak would have the offender's fingers broken. But Conrad Weller was an exception. Yozak couldn't help wondering if Weller knew how special he was here.

He stood and leaned back against the door of the interrogation room. Yozak thought of Weller inside, damned to a hellish balancing act for the next twelve hours. By now his limbs must be growing sore from the stress. The pain would only get more unbearable; by the morning, the prisoner would be too sore to resist, assuming he hadn't torn a muscle or broken a toe by then.

Yozak looked down the hall. The lamps were all still burning brightly. When it came time to extinguish them, the whole dungeon—his whole world—would be plunged into darkness. There would be nothing but the shadows in his office to keep him safe through the harsh, dark night ahead.

Yozak leaned back against the door of the interrogation room and sincerely wished that, for just one night, he and Weller could trade places.

———

Conrad slammed his head against the wall and moaned.

His arms and wrists were shrieking in pain. Trying to move was pointless; he could only shift his weight to his tip-toes. That hurt just as much, like daggers stabbing through his muscles. No matter how he tried to move, he was in horrific agony. He never thought it possible to be tortured by his own body like this. It was enough to make him scream in frustration, but he wouldn't give whoever might be listening at the door the satisfaction of hearing him in pain.

Surely they wouldn't leave him like this all night. Someone would have to come and let him down eventually. Being hung like this was barely a step up from being crucified.

He writhed unhappily against the wall. How long had he been here like this? Six hours? Ten hours? It seemed like it had to be longer than that. There were no windows in this room; the only indication that time was even passing at all was the subtle changes in the heat of the floor. The stones were as cold as ice now—night-time.

He'd heard once that freezing to death was the most pleasant way to go. One of his friends had described it, like falling asleep. The cold in this bare stone room was oppressive, like a phantom constricting his chest. Maybe if he was lucky tonight, he could fall asleep and die gracefully like that. Maybe, he thought, dropping his head to rest on his chest.

—and groaning in pain as the sudden movement pulled on his exhausted wrists and sent a shock of agony through his body. No. There would be no sleep for him tonight. Just this painful balancing act.

Conrad carefully shifted his weight to the tips of his toes, grimacing at the fresh, new pain. This wouldn't last. This, too, would pass. And then he'd escape. Once he could think beyond his aching body, he'd start to plan his escape again. There would be another opportunity eventually, and the next time, he wouldn't be defeated by a single _houryoku_ priest. He'd take his time planning, and he'd kill everyone quickly. No one was going to hold him here. Not forever. Not the interrogator. Not the king. No one.

And he would never break.

His world was spinning out of control and crumbling to bits around him, but Conrad clung to that, even as he drifted off into a dreamless sleep at last. It was all he had left.

He would never, ever break.

* * *

Please review.


	3. Tag Drei

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Kyou Kara Maou!_ or any of the lands or characters therein. This is a work of fan fiction and I am receiving no profit for it. 

**Warnings:** Slash, language, bondage, torture, GORE, **RAPE**,_**CHARACTER DEATH**_

**Notes:** Sorry for the long wait on this chapter. In addition to me starting a new, work-intensive college, this chapter was ridiculously difficult to write. I still hate most of it, but letting it sit wasn't helping; the only cure was to write it out. The next one should be better. Thanks again for your patience and for reading!

**!WARNING!**: This chapter contains _**non-consensual sexual content.**_ Reader discretion is advised.

* * *

—**Arbeit Macht Frei —**  
By Simbelmyne

———

_And because I am happy and dance and sing,  
they think they have done me no injury._

—_William Blake_

———  
**Tag Drei**  
———

_"Pay cut."_

Yozak tried to wrap his mind around the words as he wrapped his lips around the mouth of his bottle. 

_"Thirty percent. I would have told you last night, but no one could find you…"_

Big Shimaron's strongest red wine couldn't soothe his anger today. Even knowing that he'd slipped it out of the king's private stores didn't make him feel better, but he drained the bottle anyway and licked his lips clean. 

"_His Majesty just thinks the work you're doing is… well, bad, Yozak. Sorry."_

Bad work?

Safe in the privacy of his rotting office, Yozak brought the empty bottle down on his desk with a tremendous crash. The bottle exploded into a thousand pieces, which scattered themselves all over the floor like deadly confetti; the stem shattered in his hand, slicing long, clean lines through his gloves and nicking the calloused skin underneath. Yozak cursed fiercely as he swept the glass off his desk, scattering glittering shards across the floorboards. 

This pay cut was retribution for Weller's cheek and nothing more. Yozak knew it. The king didn't care if four men died in his service—no, five! Make it five!—but Heaven forbid his new half-breed make a show of defiance.

Dolph, the current Captain of the Guard, had delivered the bad news. Yozak didn't blame Dolph; he liked Dolph just fine. Dolph was a good man. Out of all the captains Yozak had known over the years, Dolph was the best by leaps and bounds. He was one of the few people left in the palace who actually treated Yozak like a human. No, that wasn't right. He was one of the few who treated Yozak like a _person._ Yozak was always grateful for that.

But still… bad work? His Majesty thought Yozak was doing bad work? That's because _His Majesty_ couldn't see beyond the end of Weller's prick anymore. He couldn't see all the good work Yozak and his men were doing _besides_ that. Klaus van Kneff had broken down just this morning after four days in the Maiden and given up a dozen other revolutionaries. Right now, the Watch was kicking in doors all around the city and dragging radicals off to the gallows, but did _His Majesty_ care? Did he care if his reign was secure for another day? 

No. Of course not. All he cared about anymore was Weller's thrice-damned cock.

Damn Conrad Weller. Damn him to hell.Yozak glanced at the shattered bottle in drunken aggravation. Damn him for this, too. And damn whatever charm he held over the king. If it had been any other prisoner, Yozak would simply break his legs and let gangrene set in. Men talk more when they're rotting to death.

But no, not the king's pet half-breed. Yozak groaned into the crook of his elbow. Why did the most important project of his career also have to be the most difficult?

A knock at the door stirred him from his self-pitying train of thought. Yozak swept what was left of the bottle into his desk drawer before standing. His vision wavered. "Come… come in."

One of Yozak's apprentices, Matthias, poked his head in. "They're bringing down the revolutionaries that van Kneff gave up. Where should I put them?"

Yozak leaned forward, bracing himself on the desk. The world swam slightly before his eyes. "Hn?"

Matthias came around the doorframe and walked towards Yozak's desk. The rotting floorboards groaned underneath him. "Van Kneff's partners in crime. The captain of the guard thinks that some of them could tell us more than van Kneff alone. Where do you want us to put them?"

Yozak rubbed his head and fumbled for his logbook. Brushing away some lingering glass shards, he set it down on his desk and began to flip through. "I think there's some room in Block Three…maybe three or four cells…" 

Matthias cleared his throat loudly, and Yozak looked up. Matthias was the more docile of Yozak's apprentices, but he made up for his easygoing nature through his relentless passive-aggression. Yozak had learned to deal with it and recognize the young man's telltale signs. That cough, for example, meant that Matthias didn't like what he was hearing. "What?" he snapped. "What's wrong with that?"

"There's quite a few of them," the young apprentice pointed out. "A dozen, at least. Shouldn't we split them up?"

"All the other blocks are full," Yozak growled, wishing he had a glass of something alcoholic right about now. "It's either the third block or the headsman's block. I don't much care which anymore, but I guess you said Dolph wants us to question these?"

"Yes," Matthias said, scratching the shell of his ear. That meant he knew something he thought Yozak didn't know, but Yozak didn't feel like playing games this morning. He just glared at his apprentice, staring him into submission with his one good eye, until the Matthias finally broke down and spoke plainly. "There's at least ten open cells at the end of Bock Six."

"I'm not putting them in Block Six," Yozak grumped, sitting down suddenly and reaching for a pen. That should have been the end of the conversation. Of course, things were never that neat and tidy.

"Why not?" Matthias demanded, sounding more like a petulant child than a man approaching his prime. "There's plenty of room down there. Besides, wouldn't it be better to split them up?"

"No," Yozak snapped, scribbling notes into his logbook. "Those cells need to kept empty for Conrad Weller."

"You said you were going to keep Weller in the interrogation room from now on!" Matthias protested. It sounded more like a whine to Yozak and it made the space behind his eyes throb a little. The redhead covered his face with his hand and took a moment to collect himself. The king's wine was stronger than he'd thought.

"I am," he said after the pressure in his head had eased a bit. "But just in case something changes, I want to be able to put him back there with no problem."

"In case _what_ changes?" Matthias snapped, planting his hands on his hips. 

"That's it." Yozak stood and slammed his hands down, rattling everything on his desk and making Matthias jump in surprise. His vision swam and swayed from the sudden movement, and it took a moment of calm, even breathing before Yozak could even lift his hands from the desk. 

"Listen," he growled, pointing his pen at Matthias like a weapon, "those cells need to be kept empty. That's where Conrad Weller is going, and I'll be damned if I'm going to let His Majesty's pet half-breed get hassled by some no-name revolutionaries who couldn't even keep their heads out of their collective ass long enough to actually cause some chaos. If something else goes wrong—if someone makes even the smallest mistake—I'll crack his idiot skull wide open with my bare hands." Yozak sat down heavily, glaring. "And that's that." 

Matthias glared back defiantly and crossed his arms over his chest, thoroughly pissed. "Then what should I do about the overcrowding, _sir?_"

"Make them a deal," Yozak sighed into his hand. "The first ones to speak up with good information get to live, compliments of the kingdom. Execute the rest."

Matthias nodded. "And what should I do about Weller, since you're so concerned about his comfort?"

Yozak gave Matthias a dirty look. He'd have to do something about that cheeky attitude. "Tell them to let him stand. And let them know I'll be there—"

"What's this?" Matthias said suddenly, reaching out and catching the cuff of Yozak's coat. 

"Hn?" Yozak tried to pull his hand away, but Matthias held on tight. "Let go."

"What's this on your uniform? Looks like dirt." Matthias examined Yozak's coat with a sniff. "It's all over you. You ought to take better care of your clothes, Captain. His Majesty wouldn't like seeing you like this."

"His Majesty doesn't see me enough to care how I look," Yozak grumbled, trying halfheartedly to tug his sleeve away.

Matthias let Yozak's coat go and paused a moment to sniff the air disdainfully. "Maybe you should just avoid His Majesty altogether today. He'll care about that smell all over you. You're _drunk_, Gurrier."

Yozak opened his mouth to deliver a scathing retort about how he hardly cared what His Majesty thought anymore, but he wasn't that drunk just yet. Instead he shrugged off Matthias' hand and comment. "Just take care of Weller, then go sort out the new prisoners," he said, shoving his logbook back into the drawer.

"Whatever you say, _Captain_," Matthias said snidely as he turned to go. He closed the door, but Yozak could hear perfectly as his sardonic laughter echoed throughout the dungeon.

When he was sure Matthias was gone for the time being, Yozak retrieved a glass from another desk drawer and wiped the grime off its lip. In hindsight, perhaps he shouldn't have been so snappish. Matthias was generally one of Yozak's most obedient underlings, but also tended to stay sore longer than anyone else on the staff when he was reprimanded. But really, Yozak reasoned as he poured himself some whiskey, if Matthias didn't want to be yelled at, he shouldn't be such a little brat.

Yes, he thought, throwing back his shot and resting his head on his desk again. That made good sense. Little brat.

Yozak stared at the door of his office, waiting for the whiskey to kick in. But brat or not, he had to admit that Matthias had a point. As much as he wanted to preserve the king's pet from the other prisoners, it simply wasn't practical for him to save all that space just for Weller. Especially not now, when the Watch was ripping apart another revolutionary group and hauling its members in for questioning.

He gnashed his teeth, suddenly angry. If Weller would just cooperate, then he wouldn't have to play this stupid guessing game. Yozak stood suddenly, balancing himself on his chair as the world swayed. If Weller would just _cooperate_, Yozak could go back to dealing with his prisoners the _normal_ way.

That was what was going to happen. He tossed the glass back into the drawer and slammed it decisively shut. Yes, today. Today he was going to get some kind of cooperation out of Weller. Yozak lurched towards the door of his office, supporting his wobbling frame on his cane and using the walls to guide him out. All right, perhaps Matthias was right and he was a bit drunk. That didn't change anything. By the end of today, god willing, Weller was either going to be singing like a bird or weeping in pain. Yozak didn't really care which anymore.

———

Conrad wanted to die.

He cast a weary glance at the heavy door. After a seemingly unending night of agony, humans had finally come in and lowered him. He almost wished they hadn't; his body had gone mercifully numb hours ago, giving him a brief respite. Now his arms and legs were coming back to life, and his muscles were shrieking in pain all over again. 

Conrad moaned softly into his chest. He didn't feel right. He must have sustained new injuries during the night. Something in his body was ripped or broken—maybe more than one thing. He didn't dare move to find out what. 

He turned his mind to other things, trying to distract himself from his battered body. The pungent smell of his own filth crept into his nose, foul and heady. Conrad closed his eyes, humiliated by his own body's functions. At least in the cell he'd had a _bucket_ to use. There was no hiding from his foulness in here; the stink of sweat and waste filled the tiny room like a fog. If he'd had any food in his stomach, Conrad would have retched. 

_Food_. Even in such a stench, Conrad could still think wistfully of food. It had been two whole days now since he'd eaten, and he was starting to feel the effects of deprivation. His stomach growled futilely every now and again. Conrad wished it would just keep quiet. He knew he was hungry; he didn't need to be reminded every two minutes.

Even more than food, though, Conrad desperately needed water. His cheeks were salty and stained with the remnants of the tears of pain he'd cried throughout the night. Foolish of him, he thought ruefully. Now he didn't even have enough water left in him to spit. They'd have to give him something to drink eventually—to keep him alive, if nothing else. Until then, though, Conrad resolved, he'd have to conserve every drop of water he could.

A draft swept through the room as the door to the outside opened, and Conrad's wandering mind snapped back to the present. Frigid wind curled around his bare skin, chilling his bones and making him tremble. He squared his jaw and clenched his fists, doing his best to calm himself as a lackey pushed the door open firmly and Gurrier stood, bathed in torchlight from the hallway.

Conrad watched evenly as Gurrier hobbled in, slamming the door shut behind him with his strong leg; the lock clicked from the outside. The interrogator looked slovenly today, Conrad thought: his hair was disheveled and filthy; his jacket was buttoned incorrectly; and there were dark, dirty patches covering almost his entire uniform. Over the stink of the cell, Conrad could smell the wine clinging to the interrogator. That was strange. From their few encounters, Conrad had gotten the feeling that Gurrier took some sort of perverse pride in his ghastly work. Surely he wouldn't really come intoxicated…

"Smells like shit in here," Gurrier growled suddenly, turning his good eye on Conrad. "You didn't _shit_ yourself, did you, mangy thing?"

Conrad's cheeks burned with shame and rage in spite of himself. He'd been tied up like this all night with no way or place to relieve himself. What did Gurrier expect would happen? Conrad gritted his teeth, trying his best to stay silent. And anyway, wasn't this all just another part of his tormentor's grand plan to grind him down?

"What time is it?" Conrad rasped after a moment as Gurrier puttered shakily around the room.

" 's not important," Gurrier slurred. Conrad stared in amazement as the interrogator stumbled over his own feet, just barely catching himself on the wall. 

"Are you… drunk?" he asked in disbelief.

Gurrier turned his whole body around unsteadily to face Conrad, leaning slightly on the wall to keep himself standing erect. "So what if I am?"

Conrad stared for a long moment before turning his face away again.

"Hey!" Gurrier barked, striding over and shaking Conrad's shoulder roughly. "Look at me! You got something to say!"

Still turned away, Conrad said nothing. 

"Don't you look away!" Gurrier snapped, storming over to Conrad with surprising speed. He grabbed Conrad's shoulders and shook them roughly. "Don't you ignore me!"

A sharp pain cut through Conrad as Gurrier's rough treatment sent a shock through his entire body; he gritted his teeth to restrain himself. Now he could feel his injury for sure: his shoulders had been damaged during the night. Ripped, it felt like, and Gurrier's rough treatment wasn't helping. He wanted to make a cutting remark that would send the drunken idiot reeling, but he didn't dare. He'd said too much all ready.

The human sneered, an ugly expression made even more hideous by haze of drunkenness hanging around him. "You think you'll keep that from me too, do you?" With a snort of disgust, Gurrier reached up to wrap one of his hands—very strong hands, Conrad noticed with a shiver of trepidation—around Conrad's neck. "Oh, no, Weller. You're done keeping your secrets." 

The hand around his throat made his heart beat just a bit faster, but Conrad stayed stubbornly silent. There was nothing this drunken idiot could do to him—

Gurrier took a step closer and pressed his broad chest against Conrad's.

Conrad's pulse fluttered suddenly with fear and he struggled, trying futilely to put space between them again. This was too much. This was much too close. He didn't want any of Belal's men this close to him, ever. From this distance Conrad could smell and feel Gurrier's foul breath on his face. Not only did the human reek of wine, but also mud, garbage, and filth. 

It took a moment to master his fear, but Conrad did. He took a calming breath to steady his shaky voice. "What are you doing?"

"I'm going to train you, aren't I?" the human growled, rubbing his thumb inelegantly over the muscles of Conrad's throat. "Gotta find out what secrets you're hiding away before I get you in shape for His Majesty."

"And you're doing such a _fine_ job of both," Conrad said dryly. He would never betray it, but he was nervous. Being touched by his human captors at all was bad enough. But Gurrier had a peculiar look in his eyes as he stroked Conrad's throat, like he couldn't decide whether to kiss Conrad or strangle him. That half-crazed look in the interrogator's eyes was far more frightening than anything Conrad had been faced with so far…because he couldn't predict what would come next. That anticipation was more torturous than anything else.

"Fuck you," Gurrier said casually, tightening his grip slightly on Conrad's throat. "I bet you think this is a game, don't you? Bet you think that there's something worth holding out for, right? That you'll escape?" He sneered, digging his fingers into Conrad's neck. "You won't. I've been trying for fifty years, and look what it's gotten me: a fucked-up leg and a worthless eye."

Even as he fought down the fear of being strangled, Gurrier's last statement gave him pause. That didn't make sense. The human didn't look a day over forty, at the most—

Gurrier suddenly struck him hard on the hip. Conrad's legs, strained from a night of agonizing stretching, flared up painfully again, and he cried out again in spite of himself. Conrad gritted his teeth. The pain was bearable. He could take it.

The interrogator stared at him for a long moment, as if waiting for a reply, before scoffing. "No one ever escapes from here," he continued in a growl, pushing back and grinding Conrad's hips painfully into the stone wall. "Least of all you. You'd never make it out of the castle by yourself. And who do you think would help _you_? Not anyone with a lick of sense. We all know what _His Majesty_ wants _you_ for."

Conrad's skin crawled at the insinuation. The urge to insult this pathetic drunk was _strong_; it took every ounce of his training to bite his tongue. There was no point in resorting to his mantra again; it was useless now. He'd killed it when he'd risen to Belal's bait yesterday. All he had to fight with now was his silence.

"I will break you." Gurrier dug his fingers into Conrad's hips. "You're going to crack, you're going to tell me everything, and then he's going to use you until he dies." He twisted his fingers in the ratty laces of Conrad's trousers. "That's a promise."

This was obviously some sort of mental torture, Conrad reasoned. There was no chance that Belal would let his grubby toadies have their way with his…his 'pet.' Still, he couldn't keep himself from asking again, "What are you doing?"

The interrogator grinned viciously. "Making you ready, of course," he replied, tearing the threadbare laces apart with a firm jerk. "Didn't you hear my promise? Don't you think I'll keep my word?"

Conrad's heart beat faster as he watched the human toss the ruined laces disdainfully on the ground. Surely, Gurrier didn't mean to— 

"Do not touch me," he said firmly.

"Pah," the redhead sneered; he ran his rough, ugly hands over Conrad's hips and glanced up. Conrad's stomach tightened as he met his tormentor's icy blue eye: as barren and unforgiving as the winter sky. "As if you could order me around."

"Don't touch me!" Conrad barked, his heart leaping into his throat as Gurrier hooked his dirty, gnarled fingers into his waistband. He shouldn't be afraid, he _knew_ he shouldn't be afraid, but the half-crazed, primal look in Gurrier's eyes and those weathered hands working towards his most delicate skin was enough to scare even Conrad Weller. "I'm warning you! Don't!"

"Or what?" Gurrier asked mockingly as he shoved his hands inelegantly into Conrad's trousers. Conrad swore and bucked his hips furiously, trying to defend himself in any way from those calloused fingers skirting over his skin. Thrashing like a fish out of water hurt his injured body terribly, but he wasn't going to just hang there and let Gurrier do—do _this_ to him! "You'll kill some more soldiers? Sorry—_I'm_ not actually stupid enough to give you that_opportunity!_" 

Gurrier yanked Conrad's tattered trousers down to his knees to emphasize his point and Conrad spat. His final, desperate show of defiance landed on the interrogator's coat, but it didn't impress or discourage Gurrier at all. He didn't even pause to wipe Conrad's expectoration off his lapel.

"I get that all the time." The interrogator sneered, looking down at the mess on his coat—then looking past it, farther down. "Well, would you look at that?" he breathed, fascinated by what was glancing back up at him. "You're already a little hard."

"Don't you touch me," Conrad ground out through clenched teeth. His heart was pounding away in his chest like a stampede; he could hear it echoing throughout the cell. "Don't you ever touch me." 

"You like humiliation, Weller? It gets you all fired up?" Gurrier asked silkily, almost coyly. "That's good." His calloused fingertips whispered past the sensitive ridges of Conrad's skin, sending a shiver through Conrad's aching body that gave way to a murmur of pain.

"No." Conrad shook his head despite his aches. "No."

"Well, you'd better learn to like it," Gurrier said matter-of-factly, seizing Conrad's leggings and pulling them off the rest of the way. "This is how things are going to be for you from now on."

Conrad gasped and quivered as his meager protection slid down his thighs to pool in a sad cloth puddle around his feet. Gurrier noticed his shiver and his face split into an expression that was more of a grimace than any sort of mocking smile Conrad had seen yet. "What was that? You cold?"

Conrad's heart fluttered in his chest like a floundering bird. He stared into Gurrier's remaining eye, and he was sure now there was no soul beyond it. "No."

"Let's warm you up, then." 

Gurrier lurched forward and grabbed him by his half-hard cock, as casually and purposefully as if he was opening a door. Conrad shouted, twisted his hips, and jerked on his manacles as his body seized up with primal terror. 

_Get off. Get off, get off, get off—_

"Get off of me!" Conrad roared, trying hopelessly to tear his manacles from the stone so he could crush this disgusting human's throat. "Don't touch me!"

"You should get used to it!" Gurrier barked over Conrad's struggle. "They tell me Belal treats all his favorite pets like this!"

"Go to hell!" Consumed with pain and fear, struggling uselessly against the human, it took Conrad a moment to realize an unexpected sensation growing within him. Fear was raging through him, giving him the strength to ignore his pain—and almost masking the hard, desperate swell of lust building within his core. 

Conrad opened his mouth in a voiceless shriek as Gurrier pressed even closer, oppressive and inescapable. His body was actually responding to the rough treatment.

"See?" Gurrier laughed in his face; his foul breath and horrible, gritty voice surrounded Conrad and smothered him. "I told you you'd learn to like it!"

"You bastard!" Conrad shook his head, trying in vain to escape Gurrier's fetid breath and spiteful voice. "I'll kill you for this!" 

"Not likely," the interrogator sneered, pressing his forehead firmly against Conrad's, forcing his last free limb back against the wall. He squeezed painfully hard with his busy hand, forcing a gasping, choked wail out of Conrad. Pinned like a butterfly under glass, there was nothing Conrad could do but struggle and listen. "No one ever escapes from here. You're going to break sooner or later and you're going to tell me everything." Another little squeeze, digging in with his nails now this time to spark a desire in the pit of Conrad's stomach that he'd never felt before. Conrad bit his lip to hold back a shriek. "Then _he's_ going to take you, and _he's_ going to play with you until you lose your mind. Then _he'll_ keep you around for fun until he dies. 

"But it doesn't end there." Gurrier pressed his grinning face into the crook of his captive's neck, grazing his teeth threateningly across Conrad's throat. Conrad's knees shook slightly with fear and the false, perverse lust Gurrier was forcing on him. "He'll write you into his will and leave you for his son. Hail to the new king—same as the old king!" 

The redhead twisted his busy hand painfully, forcing a moan from Conrad. "Then his son will use you up. If you're lucky, you'll get sick and die before him. But you're a hardy man, aren't you? Poor thing. You'll probably live to see his _son's_ son." Gurrier laughed woodenly. "Halfbloods have it the worst in Big Shimaron. They're just passed from one master to the next until they finally die!"

"Lying…son of a…bitch…" Conrad ground out, trying to deny the desperate pleasure growing inside him. He couldn't deny the hot, sticky breath reeking of wine on his face, though, or the bony skull grinding his head back into the wall like a pestle into a mortar. Even that revolting pleasure clawing away at his insides was growing too intense to contain. Conrad moaned reluctantly, mixing it with a scream, as he realized the awful truth: Gurrier's rough treatment and hateful words were actually going to make him—

"NO!" Conrad twisted his whole body at once, thrashing so wildly against the wall he felt as though he'd ripped something inside. "Stop! I don't want this! I _don't!"_

"Nobody here cares what you want!" Gurrier roared, pulling back his head slightly to scream in Conrad's face. "Shut up and listen! _Nobody fucking cares what you want! __**Nobody fucking cares!**__"_

Conrad barely heard him. A curious buzzing sound was welling up in his ears, blocking out the terror around him and giving him an instant of clarity. He was not going to come for this drunken shell of a man. His body belonged to him, and this red-haired animal wasn't going to take it from him so easily. No matter how much pain he had to endure for it, he was going to preserve his freedom. 

When Gurrier screamed, Conrad seized the opportunity. The redhead drew back his head and Conrad slammed his forward like a battering ram against a castle door. Their skulls collided with a crash that echoed through the little chamber and made Conrad's vision blur. 

"Little shit!" Gurrier barked as he stumbled away, holding his head and swearing loudly. Conrad ignored him, gasping for air. Those filthy hands were gone for now. His boy thrummed with unwelcome excitement, but the frigid dungeon air was already cooling off his overheated skin. He dropped his head down, greedily breathing in sweet, cool air as if he'd just been racing for his life. 

A feral growl urged him to glance up for an instant, and Conrad's heart leapt up into his throat. Gurrier was standing just out of arms' length, pressing the reddening welt on his forehead and glaring at Conrad with a look so full of hate, the brunet's skin crawled. Gurrier clenched his free hand—the hand he had been using to torment Conrad—and in spite of himself, Conrad's knees quaked slightly. No. No, no, _no…_

Gurrier's hand came flying towards him and Conrad shut his eyes.

"_Fucking human!"_

The crack of bone striking bone rang out in the little chamber like a gunshot. If the manacles hadn't been keeping him up, the force of the blow would have sent Conrad rolling across the floor. His knees gave out from the force of the blow and for a long moment he hung there, stunned.

It took a long moment of careful thought to process what had happened. Gurrier had hit him again. Gurrier had hit him again, but that was it; those filthy, calloused hands had finally stopped pawing at his skin. 

"You son of a bitch!" Gurrier barked suddenly, startling Conrad into looking up. "Don't you _ever_ call me that again!" 

"Why shouldn't I?" Conrad growled. He tried to look Gurrier in the eye, to defiantly stare down his captor with one seething glace, but found he couldn't—not while he could still feel those rough touches on his body. He focused on Gurrier's throat instead. "It's what you are."

"Shut up!" Gurrier barked, balling his fists again. "I'm as much of a human as you are!"

"You…?" Conrad stared in amazement. This man—this cruel, despicable shell of a man—this gutless toady timidly serving New Makoku's mortal enemy—was a half-breed, too? 

"That's right," the redhead snarled. "Can't you see it in this hair?" He grabbed a handful of his bright orange hair for emphasis. "This eye? Everyone else can! Everyone in this palace knows I'm a mongrel, down to the fucking cesspit cleaners!"

"Liar!" Conrad shouted back. What was this, some sort of idiotic attempt at bonding? Not while he could still smell Gurrier's vinegary breath on his neck. "What do you think, that you and I are alike! Do you think that makes us similar! Do you expect me to drop my guard and tell you everything now?" He could feel himself trembling with rage. "If you were a half-breed, you wouldn't be working for Belal, you lying human bastard!"

"You want proof!" Gurrier spat, intruding into Conrad's space again and ripping open his uniform jacket. The redhead pulled up his undershirt, turning slightly so Conrad could see the two thin, red tattoos branded across his right bicep. 

"There!" he spat, thrusting his brand into Conrad's face. "There! Look at them! They don't do this to humans in Shimaron! Only mongrels get branded! There's your proof, you son of a bitch!" 

Gurrier's final blow sent Conrad to the moon and left him seeing stars. They brunet slumped down against the wall, dizzily blinking the lights out of his eyes. Far away at the bottom of a well, he could hear Gurrier's erratic footsteps heading for the door. Gurrier's echoing voice calling for someone. The door opened and closed, opened and closed, giving way to chilly, drafty silence—then Conrad's world slipped into darkness and he knew no more.

———

Yozak collapsed into his office chair with a sigh.

His head hurt. His hands hurt. His heart hurt. He folded his arms up on his desk and nestled his head into the little hollow, as if that could protect him from the outside world. It was a worthless effort though; now that the drink was wearing off, he was awake and aware of everything he'd said and done—with a headache, to boot. It made him want to pick up the bottle all over again.

Yozak threaded his fingers through his filthy hair, assessing the situation. He still knew nothing about Weller, but Weller now had a critical piece of information about him. The prisoner couldn't do anything with it, of course—everyone who worked in the castle knew Yozak was a half-breed—but just the fact that knew that was enough to make Yozak worry.

It was times like this he wished he had someplace outside the palace to go home to. Even a little shack on the edge of the city…just somewhere else to retreat and collect his thoughts. Decompress. He'd like that…a nice little shack with a sturdy roof, a clean floor, and a hearth with plenty of wood. Maybe he'd even get a bed with a straw mattress, instead of a cot. And while he was dreaming, a wife would be nice, too. Coming home to a hot meal and a warm bed…what a wonderful dream. Too bad that was all it would ever be.

"I saw what you did in there," Ignatz said. 

Yozak threw his hand up for protection immediately, practically falling out of his chair as he frantically groped for his walking stick. When he realized whom it was he sat back down, his face hot with embarrassment. "When did you sneak in?"

"Just a minute ago," Ignatz replied. Yozak could see him fighting to conceal a smirk. "I saw you leave Weller's cell."

"Mmm." Yozak shuffled some paper on his desk in an attempt to look both busy and sober. "What else did you see?"

"I saw how you left him in there," Ignatz said, giving Yozak a curious look that the redhead couldn't quite place. "I thought you didn't want to dirty your hands like that."

"I didn't," Yozak replied, fiddling with a sheet of paper to avoid meeting Ignatz's eyes. "But Conrad Weller won't break with pain alone. I've known that since he got here. It doesn't matter how many beatings we give him. I tried something different."

"Someone else might get a different impression," Ignatz said, a touch of warning in his voice. "Especially since you're fumbling around with His Majesty's intended, and you and Weller both being what you are…"

There was a very pregnant pause. Yozak looked up from his fiddling to find his assistant staring pointedly at him.

"…point taken," Yozak muttered, worrying at his lip anew. He could feel a tear in the skin starting.

"It just doesn't look good is all I'm saying, sir," Ignatz finished.

"No. I guess it doesn't." He bit at the little tear, ripping it free. A trickle of warm blood seeped into Yozak's mouth; he sucked at it hungrily. "You better go cover him up for me before anyone sees him, then. Then get some of the others to heal him up and take him back to his other cell."

Ignatz quirked an eyebrow. Yozak used his injured lip as an excuse to look away, rummaging in his pocket for a clean handkerchief. "If you say so, sir."

"And some water," Yozak called as Ignatz turned to go. "I think he can be trusted with it. Just a little, though."

Ignatz nodded without turning around and left without another word.

Yozak leaned back in his chair again, dabbing at his lip. Ignatz wouldn't tell anyone. If there was one person in the palace he could trust with his secrets, it was Ignatz. At least, Ignatz was the only one whose voice didn't drip with sarcasm when he called Yozak "sir." That had to count for something in this place.

Still, he shouldn't need to keep his techniques a secret. The king had made it clear from his coronation that he didn't care what Yozak did, so long as he got results quickly and stayed out of sight. That was easy enough to do when the redhead was left to his own devices. Not to mention that he'd given permission for the use of such force before. Why should this incident be any different than any other?

"Because it's Conrad Weller," Yozak reminded himself, annoyed. And because the king really _couldn't_ see beyond the end of Weller's prick anymore. And because when they finally took Weller up to the king's chambers, His Majesty wasn't going to want to smell Yozak's soap and sweat all over his little pet's neck.

Ignatz was right. Yozak was loath to admit it, but he wasn't going to fight the truth. He's simply have to find some other way to break down Weller's defenses. It wasn't going to be easy, but after fifty years of breaking kneecaps and crushing skulls, he'd learned more than a few good tricks.

———

Cold air wafted over his face, gently coaxing Conrad back into consciousness. He tried to sit up, but a multitude of hands forced him back down again. He didn't bother to fight it. He knew what had happened without even opening his eyes. His head felt like it had been split open with a hatchet. Gurrier's doing, no doubt. For a crippled old man, that redhead could throw a hell of a right hook. He must have been a brawler in his heyday.

_"Mongrel said his toes are probably broken. Better go get a healer or two down here."_

_"Right."_

_"Get a good one. We don't want them half-assing it on this prisoner. He's special."_

_"Got it."_

The humans were talking, most likely about him. Conrad didn't care. It didn't matter what they were saying or who they were. Every human in this pit was as bad as any other. And Gurrier was worse than any of them.

_"His toes ain't the only things probably broken. Look at this jaw."_ A firm gloved hand grabbed his face. Conrad felt some loose teeth scraping against each other. _"Look at these bruises. Did the mongrel do this too?"_

_"Probably. He's always leaning on that cane, but he can still break a jaw or two if he's feeling good."_

Conrad tuned out their voices easily enough; they were nothing but flunkies and bootlickers. He was too weak to start a fight with them, but they couldn't hurt him, either. At least, not anymore than he'd already been hurt. Belal wouldn't have it. 

He tensed slightly. _No._ Belal wasn't his protector. That was absurd. Belal was the reason he was trapped in a cage and being beaten on an hourly basis. Belal was his jailer, and the only reason he wasn't chained up in the king's bedroom was because he still had some strength to fight.

…at least, he'd _thought_ he'd had the strength to fight. Phantom warmth flared up where those dirty hands had been at the thought, like brands emblazoned across his skin that only Conrad could sense. He shuddered. 

"_Wonder what the mongrel did to him. He hasn't been this well-behaved since he got here."_

"_Not sure. They say Gurrier's the best at what he does, though. That's why His Majesty keeps him around."_

He'd thought that Gurrier couldn't hurt him either, though. The human…no, that wasn't right. The _redhead_ had shattered those illusions completely. He'd been so sure that he could hold out, that he could keep his wits about him long enough to escape—that he could keep anyone from _pawing_ at him…

And just look at him now. His second day here—or was it third? Maybe fourth?—and the humans were already rubbing their filthy hands all over him. And he was letting them.

What did it matter, though? Honestly? Why bother to fight them? What was the point of fighting now? He'd never escape this dungeon through brute force alone.

"_Sir? Ignatz is here to patch him up."_

"_Then let him in."_

And that was the rub, wasn't it? There was no way to fight his way to freedom now. He was too weak from hunger, cold, and thirst to think about a second assault on the guards; they wouldn't even need a_houryoku_ priest to beat him into submission a second time. Even if he managed to get out of the dungeon by some stroke of luck, there would still be guards waiting for him in the castle proper—well-trained, heavily-armed guards who would be more than happy to die trying to catch the king's runaway pet. 

Force was doomed to failure here. Conrad accepted it with a silent sigh.

"_Welcome back."_

"_I_do_ have other prisoners to attend to, Gottlob. Why don't you call Adele? She's much better at this than I am."_

"_She won't touch a mongrel."_

'Where the lion's skin falls short, it must be eked out with the fox's.' Some long-dead bard had uttered that once and it came unbidden now to Conrad's thoughts. He really was more of a lion than a fox, if one were to stretch the metaphor a bit. Even now, as he lay on the dungeon floor with so many human hands gently restraining him, the only reasonable response seemed to be to fight. And Conrad knew from experience that that wasn't a reasonable response at all.

"_Such a compassionate soul. What about Warner?"_

"_You remember what happened the last time someone put him in charge of a mongrel."_

"_How could I forget? I get to see the living proof of his incompetence every day."_

But just because he was a lion didn't mean he couldn't shroud himself in a fox pelt if needed. He'd been captured, yes. He'd been battered, yes. But he hadn't been beaten yet. He was weak, but he still had his wits about him. As long as his brain was working and his heart was beating, he'd be able to connive his way out of here. One way or another. 

"_So, are you going to patch him up or what?"_

"_I don't suppose I have a choice, do I?"_

Thin, willowy fingers skittered across his jaw and chest, as light as a spider dancing over water. Conrad was tempted to open his eyes to see who in this pit could belong to such a delicate pair of hands, but decided against it. Whoever it was, he was still human, and still Conrad's enemy. Instead he opened his ears, tuning into the voices around him he'd been ignoring. 

"His jaw doesn't seem broken, but I wouldn't be surprised if he's lost a tooth or two," the owner of the gentle hands said. The hands left him briefly before lightly touching his toes. Sharp pain flared up through his feet at even that feather-light touch, and Conrad bit back a shriek. The hands left him. "This shouldn't take long."

Someone pressed something hard and cool against the top of his foot. Conrad tensed up, prepared for another onslaught of pain, but instead a warm, prickling feeling radiated out from the object. Comforting warmth enveloped his foot, followed by a curious movement, and his stomach lurched as he suddenly realized the curious feeling in his feet was his bones rearranging and healing themselves. After a long tense moment, the human withdrew the object and applied it to his other foot, with the same curious, almost frightening sensation. When the healing stone was withdrawn entirely, Conrad couldn't help noticing that his toes were peculiarly itchy.

"Give him a cup tonight. Just a small one," the owner of the gentle hands breathlessly when he had finished. Whoever this healer was, he was surprisingly kind for a human working in Belal's dungeon. 

Intrigued by his mysterious benefactor, Conrad finally opened his eyes. The_houryoku_ priest who had foiled his escape attempt looked back down at him. Conrad could see the young human much more clearly now than the last time they met. High cheekbones, thin lips, pale green eyes and brown hair, all tied together with the lightest dusting of freckles…a kind, attractive face, and it was all Conrad could do not to smash his fist into it.

"Back to his cell, then?"

The priest nodded. "Have him carried. He shouldn't walk for a few hours."

Someone Conrad couldn't see groaned. "So why even bother to heal him if he still can't walk? Seems pretty silly to me."

The priest sighed imperceptibly; only Conrad saw the sudden rise and fall of his chest. "If his toes warp because he walked on them too soon after being healed, the only thing to do is break them again."

"Sounds fine to me," the unseen man said.

The houryoku priest glowered. "I have better things to do than heal the same injury over and over again all day. Would you please just bring him back to the cell?"

"Fine, fine. Don't get your dress into a knot."

Strong, huge hands grabbed his wrists, yanking him up towards the ceiling; another pair grabbed his ankles. Conrad groaned softly as dull pain pulsed through his limbs like a heartbeat. The ceiling swung wildly above him before finally settling into place. He hung limply between the two unseen thugs, not resisting at all as they carried him back to his cell like a slaughtered lamb. It was an indignity he never thought he'd suffer, and if it had happened but a few days ago, he would have thrashed and swore and threatened. Now, it was nothing compared to the other indignities he'd suffered.

He wouldn't tell them anything, but he would cooperate with them otherwise—for the time being. Another opportunity would present itself eventually. All Conrad had to do was recognize it when it came and seize his chance.

And when he finally left this place, walking tall on his own two feet, he'd take Gurrier's cruel hands with him in his knapsack. 

* * *

  
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